


Void

by Fandom_Stuff



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2019-12-30 21:17:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18322154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fandom_Stuff/pseuds/Fandom_Stuff
Summary: Sherlock Alternate Ending to the Final Problem:Sherlock was shaking. He looked at the body, John's body, John's lifeless body. He placed a hand on the inside of John's wrist, hoping, just hoping there would be a beat, a pulse, the flicker of an eyelid, the intake of a breath; but there was nothing.John died in the well, Sherlock doesn't know what to do without his trusty blogger, grief doesn't look good on the detective.TRIGGER WARNING: SUICIDE





	Void

Cold. Wet. Dark. Fear. Tears. Shock. And silence, deafening silence. People mulled around the scene. Blue police lights flashed in the corner of his vision and then there was a body being pulled up from a well. Someone was standing over him, the figure put a hand on his shoulder. “Sherlock,” a voice said softly. Sherlock didn’t stir. He didn’t move his eyes from the body that was now being placed on a stretcher. The limp, cold, dead, body. He let out a moan.

The figure tried talking again but Sherlock didn’t hear the words. He couldn’t hear them over the sound of his world imploding, turning to dust, burning in fire. One strangled word escaped his lips.

“John.” Tears sped down his cheeks, pain played his heart strings, anger tightened his chest.

“I know Sherlock, I’m so sorry,” the voice said. A hand rubbed his back and then something slightly lighter than a coat was placed on his shoulders.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice cracked as he watched the stretcher get wheeled away. Suddenly, Sherlock couldn’t bear to watch John leave his sight. He was on his feet in an instant, shoving off the shock blanket, and sprinting towards the paramedics that were taking John away. He couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t be. They must have made a mistake. Sherlock had to be sure, he didn’t want to be sure, but he had to know. “Stop!” he shouted.

The paramedics turned.

“Stop let me see him, he’s my friend, he’s my friend.” Sherlock’s voice was muffled in tears and pain and loss. Sympathy glowed on the paramedics faces and they let Sherlock come to a stop beside the stretcher.

Sherlock was shaking. He looked at the body, John’s body, John’s lifeless body. He placed a hand on the inside of John’s wrist, hoping, just hoping there would be a beat, a pulse, the flicker of an eyelid, the intake of a breath; but there was nothing. Sherlock let out a moan of grief and his head fell onto John’s wet chest. “I’m sorry,” he cried. “I was too late, I’m so sorry John. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. Come back John. Come back. Please. I need you. I...” Sherlock swallowed, “I love you.” The tears were so strong now, the pain so overwhelming. It consumed him. His arms were wrapped around John, his chest hiccuped as he cried. He couldn’t breathe. He didn’t want to. What was the point of breathing when your best friend wasn’t alive to enjoy the air with you?

Hands touched his shoulders and arms and they started to pull him away from John. “NO!” Sherlock screamed, “NO! PLEASE NO!” He thrashed against the arms dragging his away from John. “NO! JOHN!” He sobbed, “JOHN!” Sherlock fell into the arms. His chest heaving, his face red and blotchy, his heart breaking into a thousand pieces, his world tumbling into darkness.

 

"JOHN!” Sherlock woke with a jolt to find himself in a hospital room and everything came rushing back to him. John. John was gone. John was dead. It was his fault. Lestrade came through the door a look of grim sorrow on his face.

“Sherlock,” he said softly.

Sherlock turned his head from the DI, more tears filling his eyes, “No. No,” he whispered.

Lestrade sat down in the chair beside Sherlock’s bed. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Sherlock took a shaky breath and then instantly felt guilty for it. Breathing was boring. “He’s not. He can’t be,” Sherlock croaked in denial.

Lestrade’s face cringed painfully. “I’m sorry Sherlock, but he is.” Sherlock let out a moan and shut his eyes. “The funeral will be in a few days.”

“I’m not going.” Sherlock stated bluntly as a tear slipped from his eye.

Lestrade blinked in surprise. “Sherlock you have to. You’re the godfather to his child.”

“I’m not going,” Sherlock repeated.

“Sherlock-

“I’m not. Going.” Sherlock opened his eyes.

“Sherlock….” Lestrade started but broke off and shook his head. Sherlock was staring at him defiantly. “Sherlock I know you’re in denial. I know it’s hard and I hate to bring this up but John did all of this when you…pretended to be dead. He went to your funeral.”

“Don’t guilt me into it Lestrade,” Sherlock sniffed.

“It’s my job to as your friend to guilt you into it Sherlock.”

“I don’t have friends, not anymore,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Don’t say that Sherlock, I’m your friend.”

“John was my friend,” Sherlock said softly, yet sharply. “And I lost him.” His voice broke.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“It was my fault!” Sherlock screamed. “I brought him into this, I endangered him! I wasn’t fast enough! I…I killed him!”

“Sherlock.” Lestrade reached his hand out and put it on Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock shrank away from the touch and Lestrade removed his hand. “John chose this life.”

“What life. He doesn’t have a life anymore,” Sherlock snapped. Fresh tears dropped off his chin.

Lestrade sighed. “I won’t push it anymore Sherlock, but it would mean a lot if you came.”

Sherlock shut his eyes again. “I can’t. I just can’t.”

Lestrade stood up with a sad frown. “Well we’ll save you a seat anyway.” He turned to leave then stopped and faced Sherlock again, “the nurses say you can leave anytime you want. You’re only in shock.”

Sherlock groaned in response and rolled over in the bed. Lestrade shut the door and left Sherlock to his misery.

Everything seemed like it was going in slow motion, only hours ago John had been alive, now he was dead.

Dead.

The word was blunt and shallow. Sherlock didn’t like it. He stared at the wall opposite him and went to this mind palace.

Memories floated in his mind. The first day he met John. His smile. His laugh. His walk. His run. His voice. His kindness. His heart. His eyes. The way he made tea. The way he said Sherlock’s name.

Sherlock stopped thinking, momentarily warmed by the memories then immediately saddened.

He noticed his clothes hanging on a cabinet, his shoes placed underneath the outfit. Sherlock knew he had to go home, but where was home now? John had been his home. Now he had no home to go to, no place to feel safe.

Sherlock sat up and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and then he stood up.

Slowly he dressed, putting on one layer of clothing at a time. Lastly his coat lay alone. Sherlock slipped it on and opened the hospital door. He walked down the hallway and down to the main entrance. As soon as he stepped outside cameras were being pressed into his face, questions were being thrown at him, answers were being demanded. Sherlock ignored them, he shoved past the people, his need to get away from human contact propelled him through the crowd. He broke into a dazed run. Heading down the street to get to the main road.

“Sherlock!” A voice called. Sherlock didn’t turn, he just kept running. “Sherlock!” The voice came again. Sherlock dimly recognized it as Lestrade’s but he didn’t stop. The revving of an engine was close to his ear and then a hand was touching his shoulder. “Sherlock get in the bloody car.” At this Sherlock did stop. Lestrade slammed on the brakes to stop next to Sherlock. He gestured to the back seat and Sherlock gratefully got into the car.

Lestrade didn’t talk as he drove. Sherlock stared out the window at the people who were moving along the streets, laughing, eating, walking, driving. Sherlock hated it all. How could the world keep moving when John Watson was not part of it? How could these people laugh and enjoy regular human activities when a great man had just died?

Sherlock didn’t register that they had arrived back at 221B until Lestrade opened his door and Sherlock’s elbow slipped from its resting place.

“I’ll walk you in,” Lestrade said.

“You don’t have to,” Sherlock grumbled. But Lestrade didn’t leave his side as they entered the flat. Sherlock barely noticed that the knocker on the door had been adjusted which could only mean Mycroft was waiting for him. Sure enough when Sherlock entered the flat his brother was standing by the fireplace, his right hand resting on his umbrella. “Get out.” Sherlock’s voice was nothing but hatred and anger.

“Hello to you too,” Mycroft smiled. Sherlock wanted to punch him, how could he smile when John had just died.

“I said. Get. Out.” Sherlock spat.

“I’ll just go shall I?” Lestrade said as he backed out of the flat. Sherlock was glad, he just wanted to be alone.

Mycroft’s smile faded. “I know you are in pain Sherlock but you have to face the outcome of events.”

Sherlock shook where he stood. “JOHN IS DEAD! IT’S YOUR FAULT! WHY COULDN’T YOU KEEP EUROS CONTAINED!? WHY DID YOU LET THIS HAPPEN!? IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN YOU!”

Mycroft stared at Sherlock, his face had gone pale, then color flushed back into his cheeks.

“Yes. You’re right. It should have been me. I’ll just leave you now brother mine. I just came to express my condolences.”

Sherlock gave a huff. “You don’t even care.”

Mycroft shut his eyes then opened them slowly. “As it happens, Sherlock, I do care. John was a friend of sorts. He brought out the best in both of us, I will miss him dearly. I’ve left you the funeral details, do what you will with them.”

At that, Mycroft left and Sherlock was alone. Not even Mrs. Hudson had come to say hello. Sherlock didn’t care. The flat seemed ghostly. Empty. Devoid of life. John’s chair was just as he had left it, the morning paper still draped over one arm and his empty tea cup sitting on the little table. The tears came again. _Emotions_. He thought darkly. He hated emotions. Before John had come into his life Sherlock hadn’t really known what emotions were compacted of. Now, finally, thanks to John, he understood, but that knowledge was being used to mourn him. Sherlock slowly moved to his chair and sat down. He faced John’s empty seat and his heart split all over again.

This can’t be happening, he told himself.

Then there was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Hudson stepped into the flat. Sherlock didn’t look at her. “I’m so sorry Sherlock," she said, her own voice cracking with tears.

“Please do not feel the need to console me,” Sherlock said jaggedly.

Mrs. Hudson hiccuped slightly and blew her nose. “I just wanted to see how you were doing." 

Sherlock turned his cold stare to her. “John has just died. Make a deduction,” Sherlock snapped.

Mrs. Hudson’s eyes popped slightly then she sniffed. “Well if you need anything I’ll be downstairs.”

“Where you always are and evidently should stay.” Sherlock added with a grunt of distaste. Mrs. Hudson didn’t say anything else she just turned and left the flat with a few sobs of her own.

Sherlock sat in his chair for hours. Staring at the space where John should be. Night crept up on him and he was painfully reminded that it had been 24 hours since John’s death. More hours passed and then dawn came. Mrs. Hudson brought him tea and breakfast but he didn’t touch it. He couldn’t eat. He couldn’t drink. He didn’t want to _do_ anything.

Two days passed and Sherlock had eventually fallen asleep for two hours. Now he felt weak with lack of sleep, food, and water but he didn’t care. The funeral was today. Sherlock still didn’t want to go to it but somehow he found himself at the church. He stayed hidden in the shadows, not wanting to be seen. He listened to the priest speaking, and then John’s family started to talk. His sister Harry, Sherlock noticed, was sober and in tears, and his mother and father looked about ready to collapse but they held themselves up and got through their eulogies. When the service was over they wheeled the casket out of the church and Sherlock watched them load it into a car. Sherlock followed the car to the graveyard, still hiding from sight. He watched the graveside service and then they lowered the coffin. Sherlock felt like nails were being drilled into his heart as they buried John and said their goodbyes.

Sherlock waited until everyone was gone before he crept from the shadows and stood by the grave. The headstone bore the name **John Hamish Watson** and Sherlock collapsed on the fresh dirt. “I’m sorry John,” he began, biting back tears. “I have so many things left unsaid and I’d like to say a few of them now.” The tears came and Sherlock ignored them. “John, first off I never told you until it was too late but I love you, I always have. You are the first person and the only person I have ever loved. You saved my life so many times, and when it was my turn to save yours I couldn’t do it. I failed you. I am sorry. You never deserved this. You deserved to be happy and I’m sorry that you’re life ended so abruptly.”

Sherlock stood and repeated the words John had once said, feeling the same things Sherlock felt, knowing it was all over. One last confession, one last plea.

“You were the best and wisest man I have ever known.” Sherlock swallowed. “Please John. Don’t. Be. Dead. Would you do that, just for me? Just stop it. Stop this.” Sherlock fumbled over the words, John’s words. He knew they would never come true like they had for John but he had to try. “I love you,” Sherlock said quietly before he left.

He hailed a cab and told the cabbie to take him to Bart’s. Once there Sherlock raced up the stairs and burst onto the roof. The tears had never stopped flowing and he took a step to stand on the edge of the roof as he had done all those years ago.

“I’m sorry John," he said. “You coped with my death but I can’t cope with yours. I’m not like you. I’m not a soldier. John I can’t live without you. I can’t. You were the only thing worth living for and now you’re gone. Since you can’t come to back to me, I’m going to you. I made you stand on the pavement below me and watch as I fell to what you thought was my death. This time it will be for real. No tricks. No escape plan. Just me, falling. Falling to you John.”

Sherlock was trembling. He took a breath and then someone shouted his name, it sounded like Molly but he didn’t care. He was already leaning forward, and then he was falling. The pavement raced towards him then, crack. Pain. Then darkness.

 

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock opened his eyes to see someone crouching beside him.

“John?” He asked.

“It’s me. I’m here,” John replied.

Sherlock sat up fully and saw that indeed it was John who sat before him, healthy and alive.

“Did I-?"

“Yes.” John replied with a smirk. “You idiot Sherlock. You absolute idiot.”

Sherlock stared at John, miffed. “What?”

“I can’t believe you did that. No hang on, yes I can.” John put his arm around Sherlock and helped him stand.

“John I couldn’t-."

“I know. I heard you,” John interrupted.

“Then you know why I did it. I knew you wouldn’t approve but I couldn’t live without you. I just couldn’t. How did you do it?”

“I didn’t,” John replied, he was grinning at Sherlock’s words. “I didn’t live. Everything was empty and void. But Sherlock, as much as I don’t approve of you killing yourself and giving up the waking world just to be with me, I am flattered. And Sherlock, I love you too. I just never got a chance to say it.”

Sherlock smiled and pulled John into a hug. Sherlock pulled away just enough to press his lips to John’s and only then did Sherlock feel complete.


End file.
